“Of coorse,” says I, “that ye’re goin’ to marry his daughter.
“Exactly,” cried ould Callaghan.
“If she’s not married till she marries me, she’ll be single for a month of Sundays,” says Dick.
Up jumps the ould fellow in a rage—and up jumps Dick Macnamara—and then such fendin’ and provin’, and such racketting through the room—till out rushed Mister Callaghan, swarin’ he would be revenged before he slept.
“When he slammed to the door, I turns round to Dick, to ask what it was all about?
“Arrah, the divil have them that knows,” says he; “I just coorted a little bit with the girl as we were alone in the coach, by the way of bringin’ my han’ in before we got to England.”
“Be my soul,” says I, “ye’ve made a nate kettle of fish of it!—Arrah, Dick, avourneeine—ar’n’t ye in the centre of a hobble—coorting’s one thing, and marryin’s another—Wouldn’t the priest be proud of ye to go back with Miss Callaghan under ye’re arm?—and with about as much money as would pay turnpike for a walking stick.” Feaks, things looked but quare the more we considered them; so we thought we would order a chaise, push on to Moate, and lave Sophy Callaghan to her own amiable family, as she was too valuable for us. But, as matters turned up, we wer’n’t allowed to set off as asy as we intended. Before the chaise could come round, we heard feet upon the stairs, and the door opens, and in comes five as loose lookin’ lads as ye would meet in a day’s walk. They were all fresh, as if they had been hard at the drinkin’,—and they were bent on mischief,—for the second fellow had a twist in the eye, and a pistol-case under his arm.
“Mister Macnamara,” says the first, “my name’s Callaghan. There’s no use for any rigmarole, as the light’s goin’ fast, so I just stepped in to ask you consarnin’ your intentions towards my sister Sophy.”
“The divil an intention have I, good or bad, about ye’r sister Sophy,” replied Dick, as stiff as a churchwarden.
“Then ye can be at no loss to guess the consequence?”